Number Forty

What would I tell you if you were still here? That the words stuck me like a knife in my side, the room cleared, and – a grimace, a grand pause, sudden drop – “We're done. No more letters.” Done. And just like that, you washed your hands of me. It wasn't till you said “Sorry” that I felt it bleed. (The apology fell the way the words had, bit me sharp, unceremoniously. But that didn't hurt so much as saying, “No, you're really not” and hearing you agree.) Enter my exit, cue the open wound. In a bathroom downstairs, I let it gush. I felt the past six months seep through my skin, fall from my eyes, wrack my chest for an hour counted best in passing shoes and not in misery. So your story goes, I “took you in the alleyway.” Your foot was halfway on the road, the bus was coming, I panicked, pinned you to the sidewalk. With a dirtied shirt and wounded pride, it took throwing me over to get the dust off. You don't look at me anymore, but if you did, would you see? I held the bottle's contents in the cusp of my hand, flipped a coin. Heads said I'd live, tails said I'd die. Tails. Tails. Tails. Heads. Tails. Tails. Heads. Heads. Heads. Heads. Tails.